


A Well-punctuated Response

by Redmalkin



Series: If We Have Unearned Luck [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: A Snarky messed-up Family, BAMF Varric and the Righteous Vengeance Spree, Bianca is well up for this, Blood and Violence, Caring - because the Kirkwall Pack are a Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Messy Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Resulting in bad trips and bad comedowns, Sarcastic!Warrior!Cian Hawke, The Mysteries of Dwarven Chest Hair, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24234607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redmalkin/pseuds/Redmalkin
Summary: (Set duringDA II: Mark of the Assassin)Shit goes bad at Chateau Haine, and Hawke pays the price for Tallis' scheme.Fortunately they've got each other as backup, and Varric intends to make sure there aren't enough mops in Orleis to clean up the mess he's planning on leaving on the way out.
Relationships: Male Hawke/Varric Tethras
Series: If We Have Unearned Luck [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1289096
Kudos: 13





	1. FeverDream

**Author's Note:**

> First piece written for this series; inspired by the DA kinkmeme prompt in the endnotes. Please read and heed the tags folks, this isn't a nice story.

1.  
Elude a Chateau’s worth of guards, knock a few of them unconscious, resist arrest requiring the calling in of reinforcements in front of the boss and Hawke got the distinct impression as they slammed him into the doorframe on the way out that they weren’t happy.

“Get a move on boys; we’d best start drawing lots for who’s first at the knife-eared bitch!”  
His attempts to lunge on the winding stairwell at whichever of them had said that earned him the back of somebody’s mailed fist, feeling his lip split again, and snapping his head back against the wall leaving it ringing. Not that he didn’t have plenty of reasons for wanting to strangle his elvish-Qunari-assassin-back-stabbing-partner-in-crime (and how did that bloody list even make sense?); but it was a general principle. And since he was ignorant of all those interesting tidbits Prosper seemed to know already he clearly had first claim on pissed-off betrayal and demanding answers.

“She’s off limits!” The voice of whoever was supposedly in charge of this mob. “His Grace wants her in one piece for some reason or other, or he’ll have your hide in strips for wyvern bait. The Champion,” he went on over the growls of discontent “he only wants mostly in one piece. So maybe you’ll get a chance to find out just what he’s ‘champion’ of!”

If there were still mutterings, Hawke also caught a few darkly anticipatory chuckles. Not good; he _knew_ that title would end up being more trouble than it was worth.

By the time they hit the dungeons Hawke had learnt just how many walls made up that route, as he’d been bounced off nearly all of them; frequently aided by a helping hand to the back of his head or kidneys. Somewhere along the way Tallis and some of their retinue had vanished, but that was rapidly being filed under ‘not his problem’ through the pounding in his skull as he was flung through an open doorway. Graceless staggering kept him on his feet, just; it also gave him enough time to notice some of the items in the room and consider in far too much detail what ‘mostly one piece’ could end up meaning.

A boot to the back of his knees sent him to the ground hard, interrupting his musings. Something slammed into the base of his spine and as he jerked like a gaffed fish the rope bindings fell away to be replaced by the bite of metal. Wide cuffs almost bracers, that wrenched his shoulders as they pulled his arms awkwardly towards the small of his back. By then they’d crowded in to surround him and it was all he could do to try and roll with some of the blows as he was dragged up, shoved into someone’s fists, knocked down. The shackles’ inner surface was burred and ridged, soon with every movement he could feel the blood trickling hot, stinging the mess of small cuts across his wrists and forearms.

The others were coming Hawke told himself, heaving for air around somebody’s boot while his own were stripped off roughly; he just had to hold out for a little longer. A hand in his hair hauled him to his knees, trapping his head against a blow that sent pain shooting down his neck from the impact. And maybe if he was very lucky he’d get away with just a beating.  
_/Really? Now you’re relying too much on that title of yours,_ Champion. _Doesn’t mean shit around here, they’re a copper a dozen./_  
The blows lessened as the knot of hostile figures around him retreated; Hawke blinked, panting, trying to gauge the room without surrendering his defensive curl. He looked up as a shadow fell across him and unease clenched his gut as he met the eyes of a man he’d met over blades not long ago; Prosper’s Harlequin. The man had nearly killed the two of them in the Chateau’s hall, and Hawke had done his best to return the favour, might have managed it if not for the extras who’d poured through the door at his back.

2.  
The guards were standing back, wary of the man but also radiating a sense of eagerness and Hawke felt a chill go through him from more than the stone. There was a glint in the assassin’s eyes, pale like dirty snow against the diamonds red and black patterning his face that told Hawke his luck had just run out and that this was going to go all kinds of bad.

He struggled to his knees under that gaze, maybe it just made him an easier target, but lousy options were better than none if he just lay there. A more delicate version of Fenris’ gauntlets, almost decorative except that the claws were distinctly solid and sharp adorned one of the Harlequin’s hands. And Hawke could smell the memorable, caustic aroma of the pale oily substance glistening on the tips dipped into the vial he held in the other; wyvern venom.

“If you kill me now, doesn’t your Duke lose an opportunity to make a grand speech about this whole business? And he does seem to so love giving those.” Forcing casual into his tone and expression.  
_/Any time you wanted to turn up folks…That window-breaking plan seemed solid./  
/Except there aren’t any windows down here, and wyvern venom takes days to kill remember? (Trying not to.) Plenty of time for speeches. For once you’d better hope you’ve annoyed someone enough for them to take a personal interest…/_  
A humourless smile tugged at one corner of the Harlequin’s mouth. “Ah yes, the venom; deadly, simple, cruel. Characteristics to match the creature so well; and, perhaps my employer.” Faint mockery in the words as the claws flexed, like a cat releasing its quarry just enough to allow the game to continue.

“This, I think you will find, is a creation with far more…subtlety.” His hand lashed out and talons sliced through the remains of Hawke’s shirt leaving bloody furrows across his chest and stomach. He yelled in surprise as much as pain, jerking away in an attempt to scramble to his feet and the claws dug a matching set across his thigh, sending him to his knees again as burning pain rippled out from the wounds. It spread until everything hurt, leaving him doubled over, shaking, helpless. His joints felt hinged by broken glass, every tremor felt as though his skin was trying to tear itself from his muscles. Sound and vision cooperated in flashes, it was too loud, too bright hammering the spikes of pain at his temples; rough hands reached for him, every strike a brilliant sunburst of pain and the world went fuzzy and hollow except for the stink of rotting grass and _fear and death…_

_Ostagar; chaos, a rout. They have to run, have to keep running, the Darkspawn are everywhere and to stop and help those caught is to join them…figures surround him, dragging him up, snarling or laughing it is all the same on a monster…he lashed out around him…_

…with feet, shoulders, head, his heart’s frantic hammering echoing his desperation to escape; but his body felt slow, disconnected. Freedom flickered in a momentary gap until something shifted underfoot and a lightning bolt of agony shot from foot to groin as Hawke felt something crack in his ankle. The pain as he hit the floor whited his vision out for a moment, filling his ears with his own sobbing gasps and the laughter of… _/Chateau…guards…not…/_

Metal slid leisurely across his ribs, cold for a fraction of an instant as it hissed against sweat, and then fire chewed into his flesh as if it would eat its way clean through, the stench of charred skin- _his_ skin- had him gagging on his screams. For a time everything was a mess of pain and confusion, stone’s rasp against torn and raw skin too much to bear, he _had_ to fight, to flee. Nausea made the room sway and melt around him as Hawke struggled to stand, even though there was nowhere to hide and every step only walked him into worse. A hand gripped his throat, fingers bruising at his jaw, bone against bone as…

_the catacombs…the cavern no longer rock as things of bone once human and never human come sliding from around them, under them, above them…dry whispers rattling from the shadows…reforming even as they shatter them and he cannot breath for the dirt in his mouth as it rains down…_

3.  
He coughed, tried to spit and a hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head back until something popped in his neck. He blinked frantically to clear his vision, only to see the face of the… _figure_ …the man standing in front of him, whose length was thrust between Hawke’s lips; the greasy, unwashed reek of him worse than anything the... _cave_ …cell had offered until then.

Hawke tried to wrench away, to bite, as the rattling became louder and sharper, resolving into whoops and catcalls. But the hands pinioning his head were like a vice and the man apparently liked to live dangerously, the coarse hair at his groin rasping against bruises as he increased the force and depth of his thrusts, trapping Hawke’s tongue until it felt too big for his mouth, yet any movement to free it felt like acceptance. The head of the man’s cock ground against the back of Hawke’s throat, sliding on the blood trickling from the back of his nose until he gagged involuntarily at the foulness of the taste; his struggles now simply about _air_ , tiny crackles of pain sparked across his chest as the blood pounded in his ears.

The flashes in his vision were starting to spiral into blackness when the guard cried out, his hips jerking as he shot his seed and Hawke felt it slide hot and thick and bitter, a shuddering growl of pleasure drawn from his tormentor as his throat convulsed in a desperate reflex to swallow rather than inhale.  
“Drink of champions, boys!”

Only the knowledge that they _would_ make it worse had him managing to keep the contents of his stomach down as he was released. Finally, finally he was able to suck in a little air, not enough, whistling through clenched teeth but he would not open them, despite the cramping muscles in his jaw. He made an exception for the flicker of triumph at the howl when his teeth sank into someone’s hand almost to the bone. It was enough to deter a second attempt but he paid for it in pain; fire and agony licking across his feet, his arms as the iron ground beneath the shackles, running through every part of him as if his blood had caught alight.

_There is a light shining a long way above…a beacon from the Maker Himself answering the prayers for reinforcement, for death to the crush of enemies surrounding them as if the darkness itself is alive. But long minutes pass and prayers are swallowed by that darkness…no-one comes except their enemies…the light turns cold and pitiless, illuminating and observing their slaughter until there will be no-one left to see because_ they did not come… 

…wood bit into his chest… _the light_ …the lantern…gone, familiar cold metal points scraped across his skin as his breeches were torn away. He froze as they ran lines up the back of one thigh, across his buttocks, just shy of breaking skin but every touch a warning. One dipped deeper between the cheeks of his ass, trailing across his entrance, pausing just behind his balls and Hawke only half managed to stifle a whimper of misery at his situation, and the fear that whatever he did would lead only to more pain. The touch lingered a long, shivering moment more and then he was spun around, his captor’s arm hooking under his leg to force his knee towards his chest, a hand holding him down, driving his shoulders against the wood of the ta- not table, rack; he refused to go there. 

4.  
The exposure, the _wrongness_ hit him at the same time as the sharp ragged pain from the fingers, mercifully unclad, that forced into him without warning or prep. Desperately Hawke bucked his hips, trying to find some form of leverage; in response the Harlequin’s fingers twisted inside him in vicious counterpoint to the boot grinding into his injured ankle, his expression one of mild curiosity over Hawke’s choked howl as if waiting on the next move in a game.

_/You’re alone; you’ve already lost this. How much worse do you want it to get?/_

It was true, he knew it, didn’t want any more pain; it still took everything he had not to struggle… _to die, if you surrender to them they will kill you…then…not here, the Chateau, now…this was not surrender, there would be a better time…he could make it through this._

He tried to hang onto that over the hands that dragged him into position for the cock that shoved into him roughly, over the knowledge that he was lying with his legs in the air being fucked like a fifty copper whore for the amusement of others. That hurt worse than his arms trapped underneath him as the shackles tore them up further, or the wracking spasms that shot through his back muscles on every thrust, sending pain shooting up his spine and tangling with the nausea in his gut. 

The Harlequin’s rhythm was smoother than his hands had been, but Hawke saw the pleasure in the pale eyes above him in the moments when the darkness behind his eyelids was worse than what surrounded him. He saw it play across the man’s face at his every attempt not to flinch or react, to give them nothing, at every hiss and whimper that trickled from behind clenched teeth. 

Hawke hated giving him even that as he struggled to hold the anger in his own eyes, the promise that he would not break, _would_ kill them for this. That resolve gradually falling in shreds as the diamonds across the Harlequin’s face loomed like open mouths, echoing the laughter fading in and out around him to join the chorus of shame and desertion playing inside his head.

Eventually the Harlequin’s thrusts became sharp and shallow, his eyes closing and his breath coming in rough gasps as hips shuddered to a finish against Hawke’s ass, talons leaving shallow stinging lines against his breastbone. The weight on his legs eased slightly and on instinct Hawke kicked out, at that moment uncaring what it would get him as he felt it connect to a grunt and cursing. It also gave him just enough time to completely fail to get his feet under him as his attempts to sit up only succeeded in dumping him on the floor. 

He didn’t want to choose anymore, to resist, to endure he _just wanted out_ even as the pain ignored him; batting him back and forth at its own whims but never letting him slip away entirely. A hand under his chin tilted his head up almost gently; his mouth was so parched his attempt to spit was little more than useless; the grip tightened, no longer gentle.

“And after everything we have shared Champion? Allow me to offer a more memorable token then,” the words spoken with a hint of mocking reproach, before the Harlequin’s voice whispered in his ear “until our next encounter.” The mildness conveying more threat than if they had been spoken in anger.

Kisses, of all things, pressed once against each cheek before lips closed over Hawke’s as hot metal seared into his chest just below his collarbone, obliterating everything into red sunbursts behind his eyes, that _smell_ filling the air. The moment blurred into eternity as those lips lingered, pinning his head against the wood as he jerked in agony, drinking his screams.


	2. Mule

“Where. Did. They. Take. Him?”  
Varric’s words were low and a little too calm, but the fury seething just beneath them reached his eyes enough to send Tallis a half pace back.  
“I don’t know! They split us up; I think there’s another level below us, some stairs off the main set.”  
“ _When?_ ”  
“An hour- and a half.”  
An hou- oh nug piss and demons. How long had they wasted going round in circles and still managed to come in through some near-derelict storage area?  
_/Bloody Orlesians couldn’t design a hole to take a shit in…enough excuses Tethras; you’re the one who needed both hands to find his arse to use it today./_

Varric turned away to glare at the wall, right now Bianca wasn’t the only one with a hair trigger. Hawke had been gone too long and if several bruises and an impressive black eye showed that she hadn’t been entirely immune, he also knew there was plenty _(again)_ that Tallis wasn’t telling them.  
“Typical; what or whoever you’re looking for it’s always in the last place you try.” The lightness in Isabela’s tone belied by the less than friendly looks she and Anders directed towards the elven rogue.  
“Then let’s go and run out of places.” Who was lying to whom about what could wait; for once words weren’t high on Varric’s list of priorities.

“Don’t suppose you happened to find our equipment on the way here? I’m a little short for weaponry since we may have worn out the ‘sparkling conversation’ option with our hosts.”  
As it happened they had found everyone’s gear from the rooms, piled in an empty cell a ways back; it hadn’t made for reassuring progress. There was a very strong temptation right now to simply find Hawke, cut their losses and bail; let Tallis steal her own bloody jewel. Except the way their luck was running at the moment they’d probably end up needing her help. 

Reluctantly Varric handed over the spare blade he figured he could most afford to lose then looked to Isabela, who rolled her eyes before producing a dagger from somewhere best left unanswered. He was already turning for the door leading out of that section of the cell block, when it swung open.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Few would deny Varric Tethras had a flair for the dramatic, crafted, honed and flaunted. Occasionally it was overridden by ruthless practicality, although the hail of weaponry and magic that converged to wipe out the two guards who had barely made it through the doorway with their prisoner combined elements of both. Trying to clear the red mist fogging his vision all Varric could think as he headed at a run for the figure swaying unsteadily against the door was that they had died _far_ too quickly.

“Hawke!”  
The warrior jerked violently away from Varric’s touch with a shout of fear, going roughly to one knee when his ankle failed to support his weight. But it was the pain and confusion in the wild eyes that turned to Varric’s, one hand raised half to strike, half to cower that had him pulling his own back as if from a fire.  
“Easy Hawke, easy; it’s Varric.” His tone one for soothing dogs and frightened children; sensing the worry rolling off the others behind him. Hawke stared at him, his pupils huge, his breath coming short and fast.  
“You’re gonna be fine, you’re safe now” the words ran smoothly off his tongue even as the rage sang in his ears as he took in the welts and bruises, the burns; and guilt ran a blade through his belly.  
_/This is_ your _fuck up./_

“Cian.” How many years together and his lover’s name still felt out of place around the others, amongst the chorus of complementary-or-otherwise nicknames slung around the group. But Maker’s mercy, Hawke’s eyes focused on Varric with an effort, the recognition in them fragile, uncertain.  
“Varric?” His voice was a rasp.  
“Yeah Sweeps, it’s me.” Varric eased his hand out to gently take Hawke’s, relieved beyond measure when he didn’t pull away. His arms were a bloody mess, cuts crisscrossing across raw skin, blistered in places, from wrists to elbows.  
“You’re late” Hawke said, more statement than accusation but the knife in his gut invited friends.  
“Eyes of the Ancestors Hawke…I’m sorry.” There wasn’t anything else he could say, but there had to be some way he could fix this.

“Anders!”  
The mage was there in an instant, blue washing from his hands over Hawke as Varric shrugged his coat off to offer in covering, well the essentials. Trying to convince himself that this was just another patch-up in the field, they’d all been there at one time or another. Except that this _wasn’t_ just another run in…his rage focused and hardened into cold resolve as he noted every injury; the dark vicious bruising across an ankle obviously broken, busted nose, and just under his collarbone another, deeper burn perhaps an inch and a half across, the skin white, edges red and cracked. And through the blisters fading under Anders’ care Varric had seen the design; the many tailed hat, diamonds for eyes in the face below.  
“The monsters laugh here, do wyverns laugh? They didn’t use to.”  
_/I_ will _find you bastard, before we leave./_

-o-o-o-o-o-

“Shades” Anders muttered something under his breath even as the healing glow flared brighter; Varric didn’t like the fact that while some of the pain had eased in Hawke’s eyes, his pupils remained too big, his look too feverish, shivering from more than just the sweat that chilled on his body.  
“Explain how exactly it is that _your_ plan is now fucked six ways to the Fade and back, and not in a good way, and Hawke takes the blame?” There was no teasing now in Isabela’s tone.  
“I swear I never meant for this to happen…” Tallis’ regret might have even been genuine if Varric had felt like being charitable. He didn’t.  
“They always say that and yet here we are. What do you know or have to make the Duke willing to keep your hide intact and not his?”  
“It’s…complicated.”  
“Try me, sweet thing.” A blade whispered from its sheath.

“ _Enough._ ” That question could wait a little longer since Varric bloody well intended to make sure that Hawke would be making the call about Tallis’ fate.  
“Problems Blondie?” His words sharper than he’d meant.  
“I think there’s, wyvern venom.” Oh shit; Maker’s breathe no.  
“What do you need?” Thinking of that salve and knowing that if necessary he would uproot every green thing on the mountain to make it again.  
“There are other things...I don’t think it’s enough to be fatal but I can’t identify the-”

“FeverDream.”  
Three sets of eyes still hostile turned to the elf. “It’s not fatal, although it does have some venom in it; it’s a, fairly nasty combination of toxin, stimulant and hallucinogen. Orlesian; hard to come by but, very effective.”  
Of course. “Can you get rid of it?”  
Anders frowned “Not without more time than I really think we want to spend sitting around the dungeons.”  
“I have something that should help, not an antidote but it will ease the effects, clear his mind; for a few hours anyway.”  
“What?”  
“Mule.” Yeah he’d had a suspicion that’s where they were going to end up; that item at least, he had. Mule was about as user-friendly as its namesake; but it worked.

“How bad is the ‘after’?”  
“FeverDream is, ‘unpleasant’ when it wears off and this will probably make it worse; but we don’t want to still be around then and we’ll need Hawke to get out of here.”  
_/What’s this ‘we’?/_  
“Is it safe to mix?”  
“Safe as it ever is.”  
Varric considered; it wasn’t paranoid _when_ people were out to kill the Champion. She’d lied, but his instincts said not about this; and they weren’t exactly being overwhelmed by options.  
_/Don’t screw this one up./_  
Varric snapped his fingers, holding out a hand; after a moment she returned both borrowed weapons.  
“He decides what happens with you. Don’t play us false, elf.”

-o-o-o-o-o-

There was a foul taste to the liquid at his lips, and then a rush through his body like the slap of a breaking wave that whited everything out for a long moment. This time however when Hawke opened his eyes gasping as it faded, it was to a world where the pieces actually stayed fitted together. The pain lacked the edge of before, the jagged muscle spasms now eased to a dull ache with a restless, tingling of borrowed energy underneath it.

Far more welcoming was the fact that Varric was still kneeling in front of him, amber eyes radiating equal parts concern and relief, the thumb of his hand holding Hawke’s tracing small circles across his palm.  
“Hey.”  
“Hey. You’re still here; good.” Not a mocking shadow that had faded in and out, leaving him alone with the pain and noise and- Hawke looked away at the flash of memories still raw, avoiding the guilt that flared in Varric’s eyes at whatever his own expression held.  
“Is this Mule?” Gratefully accepting the water flask offered, enjoying the fact that this time it might actually stay down.  
“Would you believe me if I said no?”  
“I hate that stuff; so, no. Also,” suddenly registering the chill of sitting naked on stone with only Varric’s coat in his lap “it’s nice but I’m not sure it’s my size.”

“Got you covered” Isabela entered the room carrying the last of his armour to add to the pile she’d created. “Although looting’s really no fun when it’s all your own stuff already. _And_ I don’t even get to guess the colour of your underwear; really Hawke, nothing but black? You should fix that when we get back to Kirkwall.”  
“Thanks Isabela, good to know someone has their priorities sorted.” Hawke dragged himself to his feet, considered grabbing for the coat as it slid to the floor before deciding what did it really matter at this point?  
“You know me” she responded lightly, handing him a pair of the insufficiently exciting items in question; but her eyes and the hand that clasped his arm briefly but firmly held a friend’s concern and the loyalty that said she had his back, whatever, wherever, whoever. He knew the value of those, even if she rarely put them into words.

The armour was a welcome distraction, giving him some space from the others as he pulled it on piece by piece, physically and mentally. Bringing up the face of the Champion of Kirkwall, leader, warrior, unstoppable, everything Varric’s tales said; using it to force back recent events, and the whisper that said better this way than that they’d come sooner, that they’d seen him as…  
Burying that for a while at least because they weren’t out of trouble yet; speaking of which…

“An elf, an assassin and a Qunari sneak into a party, stop me if you know this one. And then give me a _very_ good reason as to why I want to hear the ending.” It was an effort to keep his anger even halfway leashed, but she didn’t flinch from him, her eyes showing regret but also calm acceptance.  
“I did lie to you, and for whatever it’s worth I’m sorry, I never meant for you to be this involved. Not much I know. Only…this isn’t about a jewel, it’s about hundreds of lives, innocent ones.”  
“It always is when someone wants something; convenient that.”  
“If we get out of here I promise I’ll explain; and I’ll abide by whatever decision you make.”

The urge was there to make that decision now. They had no ties to her or this job, and he could feel Varric’s level of hostility even through the general cloud in the room. If it had been anyone else in that cell he knew what the answer would be, so why was it different?  
_/Because you’re the fearless leader, able to hold everything together./  
/Even when that’s a lie?/  
/Especially when it’s a lie./_  
“If _anyone_ gets hurt because of this, _/anyone else you mean? Shut it/_ your mission dies with you.” On that there was no uncertainty. She nodded once.  
“Understood.”  
“What was your plan for getting out? Assuming there was one.”  
“There’s a way out through the cellars, and from here we should be able to get to it without fighting through the entire palace-”  
“ _No_. We’re taking the long way round. Bianca wants to make some new friends.”

Varric’s voice was flat, grim and the look he turned to Hawke said very plainly that there would be no compromise. Blazing over the guilt at pain already happened there was a ferocious protectiveness, a promise that those responsible for inflicting it _would_ be brought down.  
_/Why not? The others aren’t complaining, they know you’d do the same for them. It’s the same justice you’ve dealt out so many times you’ve lost count when people come asking./_

He wanted to with everything in him, and he didn’t; knew that look in Varric’s eyes that said he’d be going with or without anyone else.  
_/It’s not enough; we saw that truth too many times./_  
/Sometimes it’s all there is. Put that mask on, just another den of thugs to clean out, no big deal, who cares why you kill them./  
“Let’s go; I’m waiting on the end of that story.” No need to wonder about where, he knew the way all too well.


	3. Scorecards

Melees were by nature crowded and chaotic; this one was made somewhat more so by the presence of one extremely pissed-off crossbow-wielding dwarf. If this time there were fewer options for crowd control, as their enemies were scattered to be picked off one by one by blades and bolts of all forms, screw it, Varric couldn’t have cared less. It meant more targets for him and Bianca to take care of and if it involved more mess and less precision, messy was what he wanted right now; sending foes down screaming with pieces of them hanging outside that should have stayed inside.

Bianca still sang just as sweetly up close as he discarded his usual method of working at a distance, giving himself over to the madness in the middle of the fight which coincidentally put him closer to Hawke; close enough to kill anyone who came at his back. Opening their throats before they could open their mouths, here and there leaving a fletched calling card buried somewhere vital in anyone on the fight’s edges too slow to realise that there were more dangers than the one in front of you. He didn’t care to consider degrees of guilt; he simply intended to kill them until everyone last one of them had paid for…

Healing traced across his back, cooling along a line of heat Varric had only noticed then because there were suddenly fewer things to pay attention to, owing to a complete set of very dead enemies. He bent to clean Bianca’s crosspiece and hidden blade on the cloak of the nearest; it had seen a little extra work than usual and it looked like there were going to be an annoying number of bolts to retrieve.

“Were you planning on leaving _some_ of them for the rest of us at some point?” Isabela enquired, retrieving an errant throwing dagger. “Or should we start writing our initials on them?”

“Kill them quicker if you’re worried about your score.” Still too on edge to have more than half his mind on a retort; usually his battle headspace ran a little cooler. But it was worth it to see the fire back in Hawke’s eyes and for the more-than-slightly feral grin he gave Varric; the shadows just under the surface pushed back, for a little while at least.

“Ohhh” Isabela nodded in mock-sympathy “You’re writing this up in your head aren’t you? First drafts always make you cranky. Is this for posterity or one of your heroes, vanquishing countless foes to rescue the fair damsel in distress? The blond one? Maybe a new one…”

“That would have to be fiction since I’m fairly sure bringing any damsel around this lot, and you in particular, would be breaching some Chantry anti-cruelty edict Rivaini.”

“That’s not what the last one said.” She stuck her tongue out at him “Fine; see if I help you with your sex scenes again.”

“I’m going to assume that relates to _writing_ …” from Hawke.

“As the only one here with the sense to deal with trouble from a distance at the moment” Anders put in “I submit that I get points for every time I keep the rest of you lunatics alive.”

“Oh you do; why do you think we hand your money back at the card table Blondie?”

“You know those healing potions you described as _not_ tasting like ‘licking piss off a thistle’? Those are not getting supplied anymore.”

“Then we’d better go find an excuse to finish off your stash now, hadn’t we?”

-o-o-o-o-o-

The second mob, while larger, included a few individuals with a better grasp on the concept of running for their lives. At least until Anders and Varric set the stairwell on fire, sending them staggering back from the only exit to reluctantly back up their comrades.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this!” Hawke shouted as the sweep of his shield passed by Varric with inches to spare for the third time in as many minutes. The rogue merely grinned darkly as he stepped forward to put two bolts through the throats of a couple of staggering guards before they’d realized that today, death was coming from below. Useful, granted, but Hawke didn’t want to be responsible for any ‘friendly fire’ due to Varric’s near-complete disregard for self-preservation; even Isabela didn’t usually cut it this fine.

The scream of metal on stone and Tallis’ cursing, followed by a laugh that he remembered too well, had him turning in grim determination to close with the guard currently causing problems for the skirmishers (well at least they were working together). This one he would have himself.

“Back for more, Champion?”  
The man was surprisingly quick with the double-headed axe that spun deadly arcs in front of him, using its longer reach to good advantage.

“Well this area’s looking a bit under-decorated; needs a few more corpses.”  
Their dance of parry, step, strike slid in and out of the press of heat and smoke at the edge of the flames just starting to die down; two more passes and he’d have the pattern…

The instant’s delay in throwing his counter-strike as his shield deflected the next sweep of the axe saved his life. Hawke managed to turn the blow from behind enough to feel it scour shallowly down his leg instead of running him through, trying to force enough space to keep him alive from the three new attackers crowding in far too close. He felt stone hard at his back, pinning him in as he barely avoided the next scything sweep, looking for a gap that wasn’t there.

“Bianca’s getting lonely here!” Glass shattered an instant ahead of the first acrid, cloying fumes curling up as Varric came in in a low rush, sending one foe down to tangle the legs of another; seemingly unaffected by the chorus of choking and gasping around him.

_/How much of that have you been sniffing, you crazy nug?/_

Not that he’d turn down the break; bulling forward to pick up where he’d left off. Letting his shield drop just enough to flick his sword out at waist height in a just-feint, should be enough to- the axe came back hard and fast as the man tried for a disarm. It was close as he hauled his shield up; deflecting the weapon just enough to slide his own free then stepping in close to bury it almost to the hilt with a snarl. Laying a couple of recent ghosts to rest as he twisted the weapon free of the falling body; one more down, leaving…

Not very many as it turned out. Hawke spun round in time to see Varric roll and spring free of the two remaining guards from the trio, a heavy bolt sending one of them flying backwards, collecting an archer on the way into the wall. Even as Hawke moved in the remaining man charged, betting his longer reach against the rogue’s timing; bad idea. Without hesitation Varric side-slipped one, two strikes, swinging Bianca up in his right hand to drag the man off balance as her bayonet sank into his sword arm. A knife flashed in the dwarf’s free hand, ripping across hamstring muscles before opening the throat of his collapsing enemy.

Hawke’s shield snapped out as he reached Varric’s side, intercepting a too-close-for-comfort arrow as Varric dropped to one knee to send a return shot; finishing off the downed man as that corner of the room exploded into flame and, other things. Hawke turned to deal with the only other survivor who’d turned in panic to run; he, Isabela and Tallis all claimed credit for that one, while Varric had reloaded a volley of lighter bolts without breaking stride to finish off the final luckless archer.

Hawke shook his head as he cast his eye around the room, making sure everyone on their side was still standing and anyone else wasn’t. Between the two groups they’d come through so far at least half of the kills had to have been Varric’s; he hadn’t seen the rogue quite this, well murderous, in a while. The rationale abundantly clear as Varric’s eyes running the same sweep met his; focusing and lingering as if nothing except Hawke mattered a damn. The battle fever in them transforming in an instant to a look that said Mine! while reveling in the promise that whatever came they’d meet it together, quite possibly kicking its ass and taking all its stuff along the way.

“On second thought, never mind; I could get to like this.” 

“Well you seemed to be having fun; Bianca and I just cleaned up around the edges.” The vicious satisfaction in Varric’s voice tried for ‘professional pride’; but not very hard.

“Apparently all over the edges, and a chunk of the middle; possibly the ceiling as well. You do remember which side of the shield is the non-deadly one though, right? You could always borrow mine if you’re in the market.”

“Ahh nice try Sweeps; still after Bianca? Give it time, she’ll let you fire her in a fight; she likes you, remember.”

“Well since we share the same goal I guess I can trust to her admittedly excellent track record in keeping you in one piece.”  
He supposed he should probably be wearing some look on his face that said ‘mighty leader’ better than a lopsided grin while staring at his lover; yeah, any minute now.

“You do realise the secret’s out about that Paragon-worthy chest hair of yours don’t you?” Isabela managed to make ‘Paragon’ sound far less innocuous than it should have. “You’re nourishing it with the blood of your fallen enemies, it all makes sense now.”

“Dwarven secret recipe; I could tell you but then I’d have to blah blah blah. It only works on hair but don’t worry Rivaini, from where I’m standing nothing needs…alteration.”

“Aww, you say the sweetest things. Can I have a damsel?”  
“No.”

“What do you do if an enemy doesn’t have hair; or blood for that matter? Not such a good look if scales are involved.”

“Says the mage covered in feathers; do we want to ask?”

“Cat person” Anders replied, as if that explained everything. “But if Isabela’s right, then it’s only fair to let us know just how big this little tale of yours is going to become; in case the universe decides to be listening. _Again_.”

“You’re still going on about that one incident aren’t you?”

“The amazing case of ‘reliable information’ on a two bit pack of slavers that turned out to involve half the Tevinter raiding fleet? It sort of sticks in the memory.”

“Can I help it if the universe shares a sense of dramatic opportunity?”

“There _was_ that time on Sundermount” Hawke couldn’t resist pointing out.

“ _I_ wasn’t the one complaining about being sick of giant spiders; I just threw out some ideas for comparative purposes. And it makes for the best kind of story: no-one knows if it’s true, but no-one can disprove it.”

“There were _giant praying mantises_!”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

“I can honestly say I’m a little jealous of you right now.” The faintest hint of that emotion coloured Tallis’ words. Mostly they contained the bemusement that was a frequent response of any newcomer spending any length of time in the company of the verbal war that accompanied nearly every expedition.

“Trust me, that’s only because they’re on their best behavior at the moment; such as it is.” But he wouldn’t trade any of it- best or worst- for the world.


	4. Coup de no Grace at all

The Duke had apparently saved the best for last as the gate falling into place echoed around the hall; dammit, that was cheating unless they did it.

The melee and ranged knew how to work together far too well for comfort; pinning them at the far end of the hall. They’d only managed to take out one of the archers, forcing Anders to run nothing but defensive fire trying to keep them all alive.

This time Varric only wanted one of them. The one slipping in and out of the knot of fighters, sending everyone’s paranoia through the roof and making every engagement literally knife-edged. They needed to change the terms of this soon or Anders’ efforts were going to be a moot point.

_/Somebody needs to do something stupid then? It’s called_ ‘tactical’. _Whatever helps you sleep./_

“We need to turn their line!” Hawke nodded once, shortly, without breaking his grimly determined efforts holding the right and center; falling back just enough to draw the nearest enemies in. They’d only get one shot at this.

“Shift right!” Hawke’s shield lashed out in a sweeping arc, all of the warrior’s power behind it. Varric felt stone brush his back as he threw himself through the narrow gap as the enemy line staggered back; holding his fire as he came up behind them until- 

The trio of bolts sang true, taking out the right-hand stairwell’s remaining archer. He had all of half a second’s satisfaction before everything became a blur of frantic evasion; a return shot from the archers across the hall grazed a line of heat across his shoulder. He fetched up in some decorative alcove that passed for cover at the hall’s other end, sending back enough fire to stay alive.

The first part of the plan had worked, the others reforming up in a tight block on the now-cleared stairwell, forcing the guards to fights upwards towards them. Part two then; snapping off harassing fire through the enemy struggling to break Hawke’s defensive position; until his target pulled away in frustration from the crush of swordsmen blocking the narrow space to turn his attention to Varric.

_/You want me bastard? Come and get me./_

Move, fire, evade; focusing on remaining a moving target, taking shots on instinct to keep their attention on him; Bianca’s range against being the focus of two groups of enemies. _/And if those swordsmen decide to get involved? Shout it a little louder, I don’t think the universe heard you…/_

He was grateful for the brief respite brought by flame and shrapnel while aiming for the matching alcove across the hall; it might buy him a little more cover. As he skidded into the space, already turning to scan across the hall, he noted that in even that momentary shift in focus the archers’ fire had suddenly dwindled to nothing. And that the Harlequin was nowhere to be seen.

_/So, that balcony then. Tag; you’re it./_

-o-o-o-o-o-  
The volley he sent out coming out of the cover of the stairs in a low, fast roll went wide; happily so did the throwing spikes that skittered off the wall above his head. The archers were retreating down the balcony, taking advantage of the better cover and angles to once again cause trouble for the fight now deadlocked on the stairs. Round we go and round we go and round we go again. And Varric thought he might just have borrowed more than he wanted with the problem closer to hand; as they circled for position; the distance between them shifting in and out, never quite falling into place as they waited for that one moment.

He and Bianca preferred a little more space for dealing with this sort of target; and there was a sharp edge to the Harlequin’s lazy smile suggesting an extended stalemate wasn’t likely to end well. Time to shift things again and cut to the end of this mess; Varric fired, stepping forward as if trying for a more solid target. The assassin took the bait, coming in high and low; the man was bloody fast.

The extra length from Bianca’s blade was the trump card that allowed him to deflect both strikes, just; the dagger aimed at his gut slid off the metal on Bianca’s stock and across his duster’s reinforcing. Varric kicked out a knee on the way past as he jumped for the balcony’s stone edge, getting a better line of sight for the item he pulled out. He rarely used them since they were the literal definition of ‘friendly fire’ without a lot of space; but when you were down to your last explosive bolt, you improvised.

Throw, two steps, and he turned the hard landing into a roll, hoping speed and distance would give him time for the shot…Another time he might have been concerned by the horror in the screams as the vapour and the dark, cloying liquid from the grenade ignited, turning the archer’s alcove into an inferno; another time. But he’d needed a one-shot kill-

Only the fact that he hadn’t turned completely to face the foe at his back had him sprawling dazed not unconscious from the heavy wooden chair’s impact. Sharp pain followed the dull as something buried itself in his leg. _/Turns out Orlesians know how to brawl after all./_

Varric kicked the chair back at the slightly blurred figure that came at him, snarling at the pain, lashing out to slice deeply across the Harlequin’s outstretched arm as Varric ducked under and away to awkwardly regain his footing.

He turned, still retreating, his fingers reaching for another bundle of bolts on instinct; it would be close. But the Harlequin paused as Bianca’s tip came up, his eyes flicking sideways for an instant as the chaos below increased in volume, the sound ricocheting around the hall. Varric fired; the shot missing by a whisker as the assassin was gone, sprinting for the balcony’s far end. The momentary loss of target solved when three figures appeared at the top of the stairs to his left, two of them unslinging bows.

A glance showed him that the fighting had shifted yet again, now broken into loose, frantic knots. The guards desperately trying to borrow a tactic, seeking the position of the near stairs to regroup as Hawke and the others slowly but steadily cut them down. And the Harlequin, somewhere, after a target; Varric knew who, and it would be far too easy in the mess down there. He put two bolts into an archer, winged the other with a third as he furiously scanned the melee over the edge for-

“Hawke!” the warning swallowed over the din.  
One bolt, two enemies, an assassin coming in like a wraith from the shadows; and no time.  
 _/And even a drunken nug could come up with a better plan than jumping off a perfectly good balcony./_  
Varric slung Bianca, grabbed vaguely for the tapestry hanging to the floor below, and did just that.

-o-o-o-o-o-  
He’d write it up as a ‘dynamic slide’, not the graceless tumble that had him seeing stars when he hit at the other end.   
“ _Hawke!_ Watch your back!”  
He made it shakily to one knee as muscles in his injured leg spasmed in mutiny; right then however nothing mattered beyond bringing Bianca up-  
 _/make this count…/_  
-sending the Harlequin down just out of blade’s reach of the warrior half turning to evade.

“Bianca, you minx! That was beautiful!”  
The follow-up stun grenade would only add a little time, but it would be enough. Enough time to pick off stray individuals as the discipline of their surviving foes broke, making the rest of the battle messy but brief. Enough to swear in a couple of languages as he managed to wrench the nearly two inches of throwing spike out of his leg; he welcomed the healing Anders sent over even before he’d decided it might be a good idea to ask. And enough to confirm that it hadn’t been a killing shot as he turned his attention to the figure stirring on the floor. He hadn’t meant it to be.

-o-o-o-o-o-  
The Harlequin had managed to retain a blade in hand, although trying to fight without moving the steel in your guts didn’t improve anyone’s technique. Varric kicked aside the for once shaky strike and the weapon as he circled round to crouch, pinning the hand clutching at the bloodied metal under his boot. Bianca’s blade nestled against the assassin’s shoulder, just shy of breaking skin; a clear invitation not to move.

“Not so funny when the joke turns?” Varric wasn’t interested in silent defiance as a response; reaching down to twist the bolt; just enough. Watched pain contort the man’s features; not good enough, try again. Another twist, metal digging ever so slightly deeper; another spasm of pain, a thin moan dragged reluctantly from between clenched teeth.

_/Unfortunately, bastard; I_ know./ He’d seen the blood, the bruises left by fingertips; hadn’t needed Anders’ (reluctant) confirmation.   
His wrist twitched again. _/You_ will _sing for me./_

One of Varric’s numerous internal voices commented that he might want to be concerned about his lack of concern over breaking out skills he hadn’t had to use in an enjoyably long time. As the assassin’s hand went for his, weakly, Bianca spun and descended; collarbones broke so easily. Currently Varric was doing his best to bury a memory from the not-nearly-distant-enough past that recent events had dredged up like a thing from the sewers; concerning a night that still featured in his nightmares more often than he cared to admit.

As a result he filed the voice for careful ignoring, dragging the bolt against the wound’s edges as he jerked it almost free, shifting the angle to slide it deeper again. Repeat as needed; tearing the entry wound wider in an erratic zigzag through skin and muscle, but carefully not quite deep enough to pierce anything immediately vital. The shaft becoming slick in his fingers as moans cracked eventually to ragged screams under his hands.

“Such loyalty to such a one, de bonne volonté _putain_ ; did you not know?” Varric had paused, possibly unwisely, but it didn’t work when they passed out on you. The words gasped in a rough exhale, trying shakily for contempt through the pain.

_/Oh, were you thinking to make this go quicker? Think again./_ Varric felt the temperature inside his head drop, the ice seeping through to whatever expression crossed his face as Bianca’s blade sank into the man’s shoulder; flicking up to lever against broken bones. The Harlequin’s eyes rolled in his head, his howls choked to hoarseness through lack of air.

“As an insult? Lacks imagination.” The unimpressed, bored tone in Hawke’s voice from where he stood nearby would have fooled almost anyone; it also drew Varric’s attention back to the fact that there was an audience for this business.

“Don’t recall you though; guess it can’t have been that good. Varric…”

“He’s yours Sweeps; in as many pieces as you want.” His hand moved again, drawing another keening cry as Varric turned to meet Hawke’s eyes, momentarily unsure of what he’d see there. 

He watched something dark flicker in Hawke’s expression for a moment as he considered; the show of uncaring marred by the paleness of his face.  
“Just kill him” Hawke said eventually. “We’ve got more important things to take care of; like his boss. Oh and robbing this place blind.”

He’d known that would probably be the answer; what Hawke might do for others he wouldn’t for himself. Varric quashed the flash of disappointment; should he be listening to that concern yet?

“That would be why he’s the Champion” Varric snarled, returning his attention to the man shivering in agony at his feet. “And I’m just a mouthy dwarf who lies a lot.”  
Bianca opened the Harlequin’s throat, deep enough to be fatal; but not quick. He watched, savoured as that face grew pale under the darkness of the markings, as the expression in those eyes ebbed to leave nothing but fear. Colour and life drowning slowly in the streams of red winding across the floor as the convulsive last attempts at breath or speech became thick and wet.

-o-o-o-o-o-  
When the Harlequin’s eyes glazed at last, the haze of revenge that had filled Varric’s head since they left that cell lifted, leaving an empty calm.  
 _/There_ was _a reason you made it so you didn’t have to run that sort of business./_  
He wasn’t about to regret making an exception though; couldn’t have a rule without them. Having run out of excuses as he finished cleaning Bianca, Varric took the offered hand up; and felt something else lift from him at the fact that Hawke wasn’t staring at him like he’d sprouted horns and a tail.

“Come on” Hawke said “if you’re quick there might even be some locks left in the vault before the ladies get through with them.” His tone tried for cocky, but the look in his eyes and the hand still holding Varric’s held the gratitude beneath the mask.

The sooner they took care of Tallis’ mess, or Tallis, depending on how that conversation went; the sooner they could get the fuck out of here. Varric had hit his quota for taking things apart; especially when there was something considerably more valuable that could do with some patching up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "de bonne volonté putain": approximately "willing whore". Apologies for my terrible commandeering of French. Varric is not apologising for anything he commandeers.


	5. Comedown Hard

Their summary departure route from the Chateau’s grounds involved terrain void of any kind of track, beaten or otherwise. Getting back to Kirkwall might take three times as long, but might also put them into the category of ‘just that little bit too much trouble to pursue directly’. All the while feeling the exhaustion of coming up on two sleepless days creeping in like little lead weights trickling into a bucket. And watching the lines of pain on Hawke’s face deepen as the battle high faded.

They made it further than Varric had hoped, if not as far as he’d liked. The Hanged Man, his rooms, might just have been about right. Until eventually Hawke staggered heavily to his knees, shaking his head as he tried to get to his feet; his breath coming hitching and shallow through gritted teeth.

“Maker’s balls” Hawke bit out with a grimace, before slumping forward.  
Isabela’s reflexes helped him to keep Hawke from ending up face down in the dirt; but Varric didn’t like the worry in Anders’ expression as his eyes gained that slightly inward focus he got during healing.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Down a long-dry stream gully, huddled in the jagged rocks strewn across the channel, like bottles on the Hanged Man’s floor wasn’t the first place to search for even the most emergency of campsites. It was the only thing the rest of the day had going for it.

The fatigue that came after using Mule was familiar, now it merely provided another point of weakness for the FeverDream. Its departure nearly as bad as its presence and the worse for being delayed; layering pain and delirium like a spider ensnaring a victim. 

As the afternoon limped through the sky Hawke thrashed and shuddered, his cries becoming thin and sharp-edged in their agony as the withdrawal bit in deeper. And Varric had been there for too many of the nightmares, off the stray words that came rough and slurred from Hawke’s lips; engagements lost, people they hadn’t been able to save; Ostagar, always waiting.

Isabela had silently appointed herself their sole watch-keeper, frequently slipping away to check their surroundings and back-trail for signs of trouble. Varric was grateful for it, and for the occasional reassuring hand on his shoulder when she returned, even as he tried to ignore the (he knew) completely unfair stab of resentment; or was it jealousy. She at least had something she could _do_ ; although not even the arrival of a high dragon could have moved him from his place at Hawke’s side unless it could be killed for an antidote. But inaction simply because there was _nothing_ else sat remarkably badly with Varric Tethras; unmollified in the slightest by Anders’ near-equal level of helplessness.

And, after a while, it turned out there was something he could do; causing Hawke more pain as he muffled the full-throated howls that tore from him with increasing frequency, one of Bianca’s cleaning cloths the gentlest thing he had. Still his gut wrenched as Hawke flinched away from every touch of his hand against skin flushed and running with sweat. But they were sitting targets out here with the shape they were in; and he really didn’t want to learn firsthand what sort of predators, animal or otherwise, this country offered after dark.

When the sun eventually dropped behind the ridgelines an interminable time later, Hawke’s voice had unraveled to hoarse sobs. And Varric had lost count of the number of times he’d regretted killing those responsible as quickly as he had; and Tallis’ absence on that list. Beside him Hawke rolled over weakly, retching again as already-abused muscles knotted and cramped, despite having long since emptied the contents of his stomach. Bringing up bile and the little water Varric had been able to coax into him in the hope that throwing up anything was better than nothing.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Varric tried for the lightest touch he could, gently bringing the dampened cloth across Hawke’s lips and brow, trying to ease the foulness of the aftertaste and offer even a little relief. Despite his efforts Hawke shuddered under the contact, wrenching around to face him. But the look in his eyes was one of a trapped animal as he scrambled backwards on hands and elbows, trying to free himself from the cloak. Shaking his head as his gaze cast unseeing around him, frantically seeking an escape route.

“Cian, easy, easy; listen to me, please, it’s just us; it’s Varric and Anders, you’re safe, it’s not real…”

_/All your clever words and you can’t find any worth shit when it counts./_

Only the fact that Hawke was focused solely on escape over retaliation allowed Varric to keep his grip light as he caught one then the other of Hawke’s wrists, gently pinning them to the ground by his side. Hawke’s hands clenched in panic as he fought to break free; fabric tangling around his legs, a low whimper escaping him. Anders’ hand hovered near his head as fine tendrils of healing magic flickered; Hawke jerked away violently, before collapsing as his eyelids fluttered closed in a return to restless delirium; the nightmare momentarily baulked but not banished.

“ _Fuck_.” The invective low but heartfelt. “Blondie, I thought you said you could take care of this shit.”   
Even as the accusation came out of his mouth Varric knew he was taking it out on the wrong person.

“Probably, with time” Anders responded wearily. “But that was before the Mule. The _two_ rounds of Mule. Right now his body is already under enough stress trying to process more than it can handle. If I get involved beyond the edges and unbalance his system any further, the most likely result is that it’ll throw him into shock and kill him.”

Two rounds of Mule; and why was that? Oh yes, because they’d needed their unstoppable leader to get through the idiocy that was helping Tallis. And so Hawke had downed more of the stuff without a word to step onto someone else’s front line; getting in the face time and again of the monster that could give some of the senior Guild members a run for their money in rat bastard cunning. And, of course, taking the brunt of the punishment; although by the end of things they’d all needed post-battle scavenging in order to have any decent healing supplies. All of which were currently, like everything else, useless.

“Sorry.” Anders waved away the muttered apology, focused on finishing the minor casting he’d been using as often as possible since the start of things a very long time earlier; empathy in his eyes as he looked up.

“Varric, he’ll make it through this. If I have to…whatever I have to. But right now we just have to wait; I’m sorry, I know it’s hard.”  
Varric looked away with a nod; he wasn’t the one who needed the mage’s attention.

_/So pull it together and come up with a plan to hand Hawke_ when _he wakes up. Right now you’ve got more time than you ever wanted./_

When the next nightmare snapped Hawke back into the semi-waking world it took both of their combined strengths to keep him down; and collecting a Kirkwall kiss that damn near knocked Varric out. Eventually pain overrode the fury that had Hawke snarling wordlessly into the dirt, Varric’s knee in his back and his wrist pinned against a shoulderblade. Even, or perhaps especially, when delirious, keeping Hawke somewhere he didn’t want to be was, ‘troublesome’.

But the sounds wrenched from him when Varric, reluctantly, bound his hands, wrists to elbows across his chest made Varric feel like he’d taken a full bundle from Bianca at point blank range; and every bolt deserved. Throughout everything, somehow, Hawke wouldn’t beg; the words fractured, mangled before they could escape, into moans, meaningless fragments of syllables even as he’d destroyed his voice. Until.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“Beth…no…please…Maker’s Grace _no!_ Leave her alone you bastards! Beth…”  
Hawke wrenched heedlessly at the ropes, tears trickling from behind closed lids as he fought in vain to prevent the loss replaying itself inside his head. From the times Hawke had spoken of his younger sister Varric regretted not having the opportunity to meet her. And at this point he couldn’t tell when his words or touch would help, or more often be folded in to feed the current nightmare. Yet the feeling every time he held back, abandoned Hawke, had him wanting to scream in frustration. And, in the dead hours of the night, to wonder if the face he wore when Hawke’s eyes met his in misery was his own.

He was almost too caught up in the night’s vicious pattern to notice and then to dare to believe the change when it became noticeable; when the tremors wracking Hawke’s body became lighter, his cries less frequent. There was relief in Anders’ eyes as the glow around his hands flared a little brighter, cutting through the dull red glow of the fire now down to embers. Not quite.

“Mother…I’m sorry…I failed you, I should have…please I’m so sorry…” There was no fight in Hawke now, and the pain that hollowed his words was of the soul not the body.  
“Please…please don’t go.”

The plea was whispered, broken, the words that you wanted to say but didn’t, the selfish demand that you shouted inside your head instead to everything else in the world. Please fix it, please save them, please make it _not be so_. Hawke stared at him not seeing, his gaze focused just a little beyond Varric; tears hovering unshed as if afraid to be unable to look, even for a moment.

“Cian. It’ll be alright. I’ll be here with you, always; I promise.” Varric didn’t care whose voice Hawke heard as he gently stroked a hand through his lover’s hair; and he didn’t need to swear those words to anyone. Because he’d hold himself to every single one.

For once, someone might have been listening, as Hawke’s eyes slipped closed into a sleep finally, _finally_ natural. The fever broken, for once he didn’t fight the extra cloak Varric added as the sweat cooled on his face and body; and blessedly, he didn’t stir at the kiss light on his brow. 

-o-o-o-o-o-

Movement drew Varric’s eyes away from fuzzily staring at random objects every few moments as the first light of dawn gave them colour, rather than different shades of black; it’d been a way to keep approximately awake.

“It’s alright Sweeps, it’s just me.” He caught the flash of unease in Hawke’s eyes as they flicked around a little too rapidly; piecing together his surroundings before focusing on him. The recognition dulled by exhaustion, but finally clear, solid.

“On a scale of crap to lousy, how are you feeling?”

“I vote that next time we stick to Friday nights at the Hanged Man, maybe the Carta’s Wintermass ball; seems safer.” Hawke rasped after a long moment, grimacing.  
“Although,” as he sat up stiffly to take the water flask from Varric’s hand “you can’t say the Duke didn’t have a generous pets policy; should have brought something more interesting.”

Piece by piece in the words, Varric could hear Hawke’s defensive walls being rebuilt; a rush job, drawing on the mask of leadership to force down the memories and more important, having to acknowledge his moments of vulnerability. Hawke was too much like his namesake in that; pain, weakness made you prey; needed to be hidden. On their way out of the dungeons Hawke had stopped for a moment as if he’d hit a wall before gritting his teeth and stalking down the stairs that led to the cells he’d been kept in not a half hour earlier. Everyone had realised a half-second too late to say anything as they’d grimly, methodically checked every room; mercifully, the area had been empty.

This time however, no matter what other more immediate threats might turn up on their way out of hostile territory; Varric wasn’t willing to have Hawke brush off what had happened for the sake of appearances.

“Cian…I’m sorry.” The words were pathetically inadequate, but they might be a start; although of what he wasn’t quite sure.

“What for?”

“I should have checked out this blighted job a little harder before we ended up running around like a ‘stalker with its head cut off.”

“You do realise that half of our lives these days tend to involve jobs that lead to headless running? And this one seemed as good as any when _I_ decided to pick it up.” A hint of emphasis on the pronoun.

“This time though…it wasn’t worth the cost. I screwed up; badly. We had our end of the plan, and we didn’t hold it up; not good enough. I, should have been there sooner, when you needed backup.”

“Well we did have an easy time of it with the numbers you took care of on the way out. And I’m not complaining in the slightest about you killing- him. The Harlequin.” Hawke’s jaw clenched for a moment.  
“What happened; any of it; _wasn’t your fault._ ” The first hint of anger in his voice and expression, leashed as if still considering a target; but a clear warning not to push, to threaten those walls.

_/Are we talking this time, or that time five years ago? And maybe you’re just looking for guilt to take on._ Don’t _make this about you; deal with your own shit on your own time./_

“Okay; shutting up. Just…if you need anything, anytime…I’m here; just so as you know.” Varric knew he had no right to expect to be the one to help, however much he might want to; all he could do was offer, and wait. And right now, be bloody grateful for the reality that Hawke _had_ made it, was back with him.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried” Hawke replied, the anger fading with the agreement that, for the moment, the issue wasn’t going to be forced. The words quiet, but genuine.

“Not very sporting you know, offering a challenge where there really isn’t any incentive to win.”

“Right now? I could think of some” Hawke said, wrinkling his nose and shivering slightly at the odour and feel of sweat- soaked fabric; casting an eye around for his pack.  
“I’m guessing a water source around wherever here is would be overly optimistic?”

“I swear it was in my other coat; must have left it up at his Grace’s.”

“You only have one coat.”

“ _Technically_ not true, but not my strongest argument, granted.” Varric offered a shoulder as Hawke dragged himself to his feet, bone-deep muscle aches making it a deliberate exercise in coordination.

“Did anyone manage any sleep last night?” Hawke asked, taking the more-or-less clean clothing Varric had long since set out next to a pack now organised to within an inch if its life.

“Blondie; some. At least he’d better have.” When Hawke had finally slept Varric had insisted the mage did as well, on the grounds that somebody should, and he’d known for a certainty that he wouldn’t have been able to close his eyes until he’d seen Hawke open his.  
“We might be able to push our luck a little further if that’s what you’re thinking, right now though I might stay sober for a week if it meant avoiding any more surprises this place wants to throw out.”

“No arguments here, but at this point we’ll walk right into the next one and not even see it. Well maybe about the week; you wouldn’t make it three days.” Hawke waved the others over from where they’d been sitting just far enough off to give the two of them some space.

“Slanderous lies; and I’ve got a monopoly on those I’ll have you know.” Rivaini and Anders’ expressions completed the set of ragged exhaustion, but Varric also noticed that aside from their still being here, the campsite might as well have never existed. Apparently they all wanted to put some distance on this country; preferably permanently.

“Any signs of possible company; of whatever form?” Isabela shook her head.

“Looks like even those little hole-digging bastards don’t like this place. Oh and there aren’t any ghasts either. Our trail’s pretty well covered, and we’ll hear them before they see us if they try to follow us down, it’s not exactly a stroll on deck.”

“Then we’ll take another watch. Anders and I will give you four hours-”

“ _No._ ” Three voices in near-unison.

“I’ll keep watch” Anders stated in tones of ‘healer pulling rank’ “ _you’re_ going to take the rest.”

“Attractive as that armour is” Isabela put in “we’ve all decided it really works much better if you’re the one who gets to carry it back to Kirkwall.”

“Mutiny…” Hawke muttered, but without any heat.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Varric decided not to look too closely at the sudden favour of the universe, when in addition to Hawke’s telling acquiescence, he’d won the argument that being able to take the rest meant that ‘sleeping’ in full armour could be avoided. From a regrettable, if short-lived, fit of martial patriotism on Bartrand’s part he’d found out that mail alone was uncomfortable enough, he’d never figured out how the warrior managed with any variation on the theme of plate. Even if he suspected that, this time, the armour was serving more than one purpose.

“I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one under healer’s orders here.” Hawke watched him enquiringly from the sleeping patch he’d pulled up; a little ways off Isabela was already asleep in less time than it took to say ‘wake me if something tries to kill us’.

“Just…wasn’t sure if you wanted company.” Feeling his way into how things would be for a while; for as long as they needed to be.

“And miss sharing the joy of chainmail sleepwear? Not likely.” Hawke’s huff of laughter didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Varric…get your ass over here. Please.”

Well he wasn’t going to wait to be asked twice. Varric slid in under their combined pile of cloaks, Bianca settled within easy reach at his head, as Hawke rolled over; taking in the process what even the most generous-minded companion would consider more than his fair share. Grumbling, Varric gave a token yank, then settled for spooning in closer against Hawke’s back; he’d opted for discarding the duster. Dependable (and stylish) line of defence though it was, yesterday’s action had left it somewhat ‘fragrant’, even by his standards.

In spite of his offer Hawke tensed at the contact, the emotional space offered by their position dragging against other sorts of vulnerability. Slowly Varric raised a hand to rest against the back of Hawke’s neck, the only bare skin he could reach, palm and fingers kneading in a gentle caress; the touch one of reassurance, demanding nothing.

“Whatever you need Sweeps, your choice; it’s okay.”  
Hawke lay still for a long moment, saying nothing. Then his hand reached up to catch Varric’s, dragging it awkwardly round to sandwich Varric’s arm under his own, slowly relaxing against the rogue.  
“Stay” Hawke whispered.

It mightn’t have been the most logical position given the height difference, and the chainmail might have been bloody uncomfortable, Varric wouldn’t have been anywhere else as he tightened his embrace. They’d get through this, somehow. He’d made a promise.  
“Always.”

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:  
> "When Hawke is arrested he's injured in the process. (Injured more seriously or just roughed up quite a bit is up to A!A). When Varric and other companion get there, Varric sees the shape Hawke is in and is PISSED as hell. After seeing to Hawke's injuries, he and Bianca are all too happy to make Prosper's minions pay.
> 
> Bonus points for Hawke being *utterly* turned on by Badass Varric getting paybacks.  
> Extra huge bonus for teasing banter between everyone about how Varric is going to make his badassery even more pumped up when he publishes the event."


End file.
